


Curate: to select, organize, and look at objects or works of art

by lilacsandlavender



Series: Enola Holmes One-Shots [6]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Cute, F/M, First Fight, Internal Conflict, another story nobody asked for!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27436237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacsandlavender/pseuds/lilacsandlavender
Summary: Enola and Tewkesbury have their first fight, and Enola stumbles across an old memory that makes her realize that life's better with the marquess in it. // unintentional chapter 2 up now :)
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Series: Enola Holmes One-Shots [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1993813
Comments: 20
Kudos: 213





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Inspired to write this after realizing, if you watch closely during the part in Enola Holmes where she flips through stages of her plan, there's a VERY quick glimpse to a shot that says, "Do I Love Tewkesbury?" Hope you like it! :)

Though it is a mundane, bleak May afternoon in London with grey clouds filling the skies above, Enola Holmes beams as she finishes telling the story of her latest adventure, and her countenance lights up Basilwether Hall’s sun room. She loves her work and takes pride in the ability to help the London community so efficiently. To say she isn’t well-known across the city would be a blatant lie, especially since she is now quietly courting Lord Tewkesbury, marquess of Basilwether.

Yes, the two had become a couple the previous month one rainy day in April. From the time she had promised him in the summertime that he hadn’t seen the last of her, they had happily stayed in close contact, but Enola with all her sleuthing talent couldn’t say that she had foreseen the courtship proposal.

She and the marquess had been running full-sprint to the Hall from the woods – Enola had of course won their unofficial foot race – both drenching wet, for it had started to downpour while they sat chatting in his treehouse. When they’d made it safely inside and shut the side door in heaps of laugher as if they weren’t almost both adults, Tewkesbury had suddenly grown very quiet and watched Enola as she attempted to keep the water from claiming the floor, even though there were plenty of servants to clean up messes.

“Enola wait,” he’d said, and when she’d glanced back at him, he’d seemed incredibly nervous, shifting his weight on each foot and worrying his jacket between his fingers.

She’d walked back to where he was standing and looked up. He’d grown over the past nine months, and though he had stood taller than her before, now he all but towered over her. Or maybe he’d just appeared taller, for all Enola could see were his beautiful brown eyes, and all she could concentrate on were how they danced with uncertainty when he swallowed and anxiously licked his lips.

“Yes?” She’d cocked her head and blinked in confusion when he hesitated.

And then he’d kissed her. It was quick, only slightly longer than a peck, and though she’d been able to feel his nerves through their lips (or maybe that had been that spark everyone talked about?), it had felt like a lifetime or two had passed by the time they parted.

He’d breathed out, “Will you do me the honors of allowing me to court your fair hand?”

And all Enola could do was blink dumbly up at him, hair sticking to the sides of her face, still not yet recovered from his show of affection to start to consider the proposal.

“...Court you?”

She’d ended up saying yes, realizing that while Tewkesbury would stay true to his word to wait for her to be ready, she would be lying to herself if she said she didn’t have feelings for him in return.

Since then, they have been corresponding through letter and in-person, though more often now then before. Enola finds herself tearing into letters from him with vigor she first noticed only after Sherlock had once been present and raised an eyebrow at her zeal. She curbs the enthusiasm from then on, but only when in the public eye. For when evening comes and she reaches for the fountain pen her mother gave her to draft a letter to Tewkesbury, there’s a giddy rush of happiness in the pit of her stomach that can’t help but tug upwards on the corners of her mouth.

Initially she felt silly for letting the boy she’d deemed a nincompoop mean so much to her. The first time they’d went out together in public was at night, which was all the more reason she’d chastised herself beforehand for spending so much time on styling her hair (which she’d never officially learned how to do growing up).

But it’s true: Enola is in love, whether she likes it or not.

The first time Tewkesbury sent Enola flowers she laughed because they’d taken her by surprise but shouldn’t have. Then she’d noted that being the expert florist he was, the bouquet had no doubt been arranged by none other than himself, and it continues to warm her to know that he wants to share his passion with her.

So in turn, she shares her passion with him. She loves how patient he is to listen to her rattle on about her latest cases. He doesn’t ever have to fake interest, for she’s always narrating her thrilling escapades animatedly. And while she’d _like_ to say his rapt attention or even the raspberry scones he makes for their visits is her favorite part of meeting, it’s the far-away look she repeatedly catches him gazing upon her (when he thinks she’s too caught-up in her reiterations to notice) that lets her know he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else either.

Now in the present, she is ready to hear his remarks on said case. Leaning forward in her wicker chair, she props her elbows on her lower thighs, clasps her hands together, and blinks up at him from under the pretension that he’s beaming back at her like he always does.

But instead of receiving praise, Tewkesbury stares at her, and when he remains silent, Enola begins to fidget. 

“What?” she finally asks, confused at his lack of feedback. 

“Noth...Nothing, Enola.” Tewkesbury stutters and makes a slight dismissive gesture with his hand. He won’t look at her in the eye. Now, Enola may be a detective, but it doesn’t take someone with her expertise in the field of sleuthing to pick up on the clues that point to an obvious fact: Tewkesbury definitely has input but is holding back for some unforeseen reason. 

“Tell me,” she urges, reaching for her teacup. “I’m curious.” All she wants to know are his thoughts on her latest case, not intel on classified Parliament information or anything incredibly vital, so it doesn’t make any sense to her why secrecy is dictating his ability to communicate. 

Dropping the subject is not in Tewkesbury’s best interest, and she knows he knows this. “It’s simply-” he starts, unsure. “You _just_ told me that you were _shot_ at by a deranged woman who thought that you were trying to steal her prized cows as you traipsed through a field of wet mud and cattle excrement.”

“Well to be fair, I _was_ trespassing...”

“Shot at-!”

“ _And_ I did get those jewels back! They were hidden in the barn like I suspe-”

“Do you even hear yourself, Enola?” Tewkesbury interrupts her sharply in exasperation, which is probably his first misdemeanor. “You don’t sound even _remotely_ worried that you were this close to death.”

The teacup is placed back down with a clink. Enola sits up straight and eyes her beau intensely, a silent warning for him to take the chance she’s offering him to stop talking and face no repercussions. He doesn’t notice. 

"I guess I thought that after almost being killed the _first_ time last year, you'd take some precaution, but after hearing the last three cases’ reports, it's like any chances to be severely be injured are pieces of art in a museum and you want to curate them.”

Enola can't help it. She scowls. Tewkesbury has _always_ been supportive of her love for detective work. His change in attitude is not welcome. 

“Well did it ever occur to you that maybe I have guts and you don't?” she finds herself snapping back in the name of defense. “I'm not saying your work isn't important, but you can't act like you can relate to me when you sit in a room full of policy makers all day.” 

_Who does he think he is to judge me?_ she thinks.

Now it's the lord's turn to sit up straight in attentive irritation. “You have _no_ idea how tedious it can get in Parliament,” he informs her in a stern tone that might as well belong to a stranger, for it is a far cry from his characteristically gentle voice. “I’m simply trying to call your attention to how reckless you can be sometimes. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” 

That last sentence reveals the overall motive for his initial worry, but it does little to reassure Enola. It sounds icy and forced to her; it makes her feel like she’s being scolded by her mother instead of being the center of loving concern. All she can focus on is how she was just insulted by someone who is, in her mind, supposed to unconditionally root for her sleuthing work. 

“And what do you suppose I do about it?” she quips. “Danger automatically comes with the job. Unless you think I’m so negligent with my safety that I _quit_ my private detective practice?” The scoff she enunciates afterwards indicates her sarcasm.

Tewkesbury unfortunately finds the offer tempting to a degree.

Uncrossing his legs, he says, “No, of course not, but to lessen the chances of, oh - I don’t know - _dying_ on a daily basis, I think you shouldn’t work so much...”

That’s the tipping point. The mere thought of slowing down her favorite endeavor makes Enola shudder with horror she hasn’t felt since the ride to Miss Harrison’s finishing school. She rises to her feet swiftly, the scowl that’s etched onto her face distorting the features Tewkesbury has run his fingers over countless times. “And _I_ think you’re sticking your nose into business that’s not yours, as if you’re some snobby member of nobility who thinks his position of power gives him jurisdiction to determine what I do or don’t do.” 

She pretends to have a moment of clarity. “Oh, wait... _you are_.”

For a fraction of a moment neither of them say anything, both shocked at Enola’s biting words. At some level, both young adults know she can’t _completely_ mean what she said, but when Enola doesn’t offer any form of remorse for the verbal slap in Tewkesbury’s face, the marquess doesn’t try to apologize for his share of miscommunication.

“I think you should leave.”

The tiny part of Enola which had somehow held onto the hope that he’d ask her to stay is snuffed out. Seeing that Tewkesbury is not going to succumb to any pressure she’s placed on him to admit any wrongdoing, Enola huffs, “I was just about to,” and strides past him, chin lifted and full of indignance.

It feels odd to Enola to leave Basilwether Hall – or any place where she and Tewkesbury part ways – without some sort of exchange of an affectionate touch. There is always a hand kiss or quick hug between their farewells and greetings, but not today. She all but shoves that remorse aside as she hails a carriage and climbs inside, determined that if she can’t do much about the slowly shattering feeling in her chest, she can at least keep her pride in check.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Tewkesbury breaks first.

Enola only knows this because of his attempts to contact her after a few days. Currently it’s been a little over a week since they’ve last seen each other, since that horrible night, and though it’s given her time to think and reflect about how she _could_ mend the damages, she refuses to dwell on the situation for any length of time. She tries to convince herself that she needs this space away from him.

_You don’t miss him_ , she tells herself countless times in those _nine_ days. _He really_ is _a pretentious know-it-all sometimes, and you’re better off spending more time on solving mysteries anyways._

This becomes her mantra, so why does he constantly fill her thoughts first thing in the morning?

It’s as if she’s experiencing the denial stage of grief, yet technically have they broken off their courtship? No, but the absence of a public statement saying they have or haven’t does little to make Enola feel less alone and further from Tewkesbury than ever. She turns to an outlet to channel her emotions at, to distract from the steadily growing guilt gnawing at her gut that passes with each day. 

She found herself thrown back into work – now hunting down a wanted criminal who is heavily suspected of multiple arson charges – but her heart’s not fully there, putting a damper on the work she’s come to love.

She knows she’s off her game because of her fractured love life, and she _hates_ that, but still her pride won’t give way. She’s stubborn like that.

So the sections of the newspaper that contained articles rumoring a split between her and Tewkesbury are thrown into her evening fires. The vigor she once possessed when it came to opening his letters has died alongside those fires’ embers, for she’s set aside any letter he’s sent her since their fight, all so she doesn’t have to face the the reality that she was much too mean and rash that day. 

Because deep in her heart she knows the moment she sees his scrawling, perfect handwriting – and _damn_ does he have a way with words too – it’ll be over for her resolution. She’ll read the sentences in his voice, that same one her imagination made silly scenarios of him talking her to sleep with; and she’ll spend too long picturing the remorseful face that belonged to the sweetest person she’s met.

And then on the 10th day of ignoring the marquess, she comes to a halt in her current case. Stumped on a clue, she pulls out her suitcase of previous cases’ notes she’s taken over the past year. 

_Maybe I can spark my mind into figuring out what this means with some inspiration from the past,_ she thinks as she begins to stuffle through the extensive stack. She becomes immersed in her old comments to the point where when a knock comes at the door, the container precariously balanced on one of her legs goes flying when she jumps up. 

It’s Ms. Nibley, the apartment owner and Enola’s landlord. “This came for you just now, dear,” she says, handing Enola an envelope. 

Enola is able to hold her eye-roll off until after she hears retreating steps, but she immediately knows it’s yet _another_ letter from Tewkesbury. The size of the paper pouch is not only identical to the other posts, but its material also feels expensive to the touch. She tosses the piece of mail on her dresser instead of adding it to the accumulating pile on her night stand and begins to clean up the mess her upset caused. 

It’s one of the last papers she picks up. She doesn’t realize what it is until it’s staring her in the face, but the words are clear: 

_Do I Love Tewkesbury?_

The note is from last summer, specifically when she was trying to solve the mystery of who wanted Tewkesbury dead. She’d forgotten all about it and never glanced at it again after the case closed, for she stacked her case notes in chronological order, with oldest on the bottom. However, seeing it now brings back the memory of the first flutter of romantic feeling she’d felt towards him, and it finally clicks that she’s been such a fool to think she could push _her_ nincompoop away without suffering any emotional repercussions.

The tears that have been begging to make their presence since that horrible night 10 days ago are finally released, filling her eyes, making it impossible to read the list underneath the question, but she doesn’t need to see it to know that the tally of pros far exceeds the one of ridiculous cons.

That lanky boy with the goofy smile had stolen her heart a long time ago and given her all his love as reparation. With this knowledge, Enola comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t deserve her silent treatment, not when he meant...no, _means_ too much to her. 

And then it makes sense. If she means as much to him as he does to her - if she’s scared to lose him over a petty argument - _of course_ it was perfectly reasonable that he was going to freak out over the chance he might lose her to some culprit who didn’t give a damn if she was a Holmes. She’d taken offense much too quickly, too blindsided with the idea that he thought she incapable, to understand that his concern came from a place of love, not hate. 

She needs to get to him. Immediately. 

Halfway out the door, Enola freezes. _What if he doesn’t want to see you?_

The thought hasn’t crossed her mind until now. But it’s possible, isn’t it? Sure, Tewkesbury is sweet and understanding, but what if her monstrous attitude and avoidance has made him realize she’s too hard to please? The idea makes her chest feel uncomfortably tight. 

_But why would he send_ **_all_ ** _those letters if he wanted to end the courtship?_

The letters.

Enola turns to her dresser and rips into the one received minutes ago, hands shaking and heart beating. It’s like she can’t open the folded paper and scan its contents fast enough. 

_Dear Enola,_

Well, he addressed her with civility. That’s a good sign. 

_It has come to mind that perhaps you no longer wish to be in correspondence. If that is true, then I cannot stop you, but I do not think I will ever be truly at rest without informing you that I will miss you, our friendship, and our budding happiness with each other for what will seem like an infinite amount of time._

_You – mind, heart, and soul – are_ incredible _, Enola. Truly. And I do not make this remark in vain, in hopes that you may change your mind, but instead to remind you that whomever should be as fortunate to gain your hand next should have this fact about you in the forefront of their thoughts._

Enola bites her cheek so she won’t start to cry again.

_For you are unique and irreplaceable, lively and smart as you are beautiful and kind; and for that I wish everyone to note._

_As stated in my previous letters, I will respect your personal space by avoiding visiting your parlor, but also as always, I will wait for you in alley between 13th in Elm and Brewer’s Lane until 18:00 this evening-_

Enola’s head snaps up to look at the clock on her bedroom wall. It’s currently forty-five minutes after 17:00. 

As much as she wants to sit down and indulge in the rest of Tewkesbury’s letters, she knows she must hurry if she wants to catch him before his departure. Sure, she knows where he lives, but the idea of returning to _Basilwether_ before she’s tried to atone for her words scares her. Anyways, this is him offering to see her, right?

She decides in a split second that she cannot wait for a carriage be the method of transport to her destination, and takes matters into her own hands. As she sprints down the streets of London, she receives strange looks and a few dirty glances, but she doesn’t care. Instead, she remains thankful that she’s a fast runner because while her speed has served her well many times, it strikes her as funny that just this once, she’s not running _from_ someone to solve her problems, but instead _to_ someone. 

To Tewkesbury. 

Enola rounds the corner of 12th street and when she sees him, she can’t tell if she’s out of breath or gasping with relief that it’s exactly the top of the hour and he’s _here_. 

He’s leaning against one of the brick buildings that makes up the alleyway, holding a single rose, and staring at the ground in which he’s anxiously repeatedly moving one foot across. 

She calls out to him, and it feels _so good_ to have his name back in her mouth. 

If he isn’t been startled at her appearance, he all but staggers back in shock when she reaches him, but maybe it’s due to the way she hugs him with a ferocity she hadn’t known she possessed until this moment.

Enola had scraped together a small monologue while running of exactly what she wants to say, but the speech goes out the window when Tewkesbury cups her face with one hand and whispers, “Oh my word...you’re really here.”

“I am,” she confirms, not caring if passersby can see them. Then, the most important part of what she wants to say- “I’m sorry.” 

“No, _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have been telling you what to do-”

“I shouldn’t have exploded the way I did and then shut you out for a week-”

“Because I know how much you care about your detective work-”

“You were only looking out for me, which I’m still not used to many people doing-”

“I shouldn’t have called you reckless-”

“And I don’t think you’re snobby nobility at _all_ -”

And so the two are talking on top of each other, not quite hearing what the other is saying. But the equal measures of desperation and remorse in their voices they _are_ able to distinguish, and nothing more is needed for each party to know that they’re forgiven. Enola asks anyways, just to make sure. 

Grasping Tewkesbury’s unoccupied hand, she shoots him a worried glance. “So...you’re not furious with me?”

It’s a cross between a bark of laughter and whine of confusion that accompanies, “What? _No!_ If anything, I was scared I’d messed up our friendship and everything we’ve become since then. I wasn’t sure what to do after you left, for I’ve grown accustomed and very fond of your company, Enola Holmes, so that’s why I wrote to you. To be truthful, when I kept coming back here each day and you didn’t show, I was getting worried that either you’d completely moved on or somehow worse yet, the letters weren’t being delivered properly-”

A stab of guilt pierces through Enola. Then his words sink in. 

“You waited for me _every day_?” She’s both in awe at his perseverance and horrified at herself yet again for leaving him . 

Tewkesbury cocks his head at her. “Yes...?” he says slowly, as if he’s confused that there could possibly be another answer.

“But...why?” Ever the detective, Enola must ask questions when they present themselves useful to her accumulation of knowledge. She scrunches up her nose at the thought of being in his position, thinking, _I know_ ** _I_** _wouldn’t have done that for me. Not after how I acted._

Tewkesbury doesn’t answer right away. For a moment, Enola thinks he might not be sure, but then he’s blinking slowly at her, warmth radiating from him as he reaches for her other hand, presses the rose into it, and says, “Because you were - _are_ \- worth it, and...I love you.”

Enola stares at him in awe, eyes wide and lips parted, much like the time he’d asked her through black wrought-iron gates if she would have stayed with his family if he’d asked her. He’s never said those three words to her before, nor has she to him. It’s always been an understood, agreed idea, but hearing it out loud makes her head spin.

For a girl who loves ciphers, she cannot seem to find the words she desires (or find her voice at all)....so she doesn’t. Next thing she knows she’s reaching up with one hand to pull Tewkesbury’s head down to her height, and then she’s kissing him with all her being, silently answering the question on that slip of paper written so long ago to let him know that yes: she loves him too.

When they part, they’re both grinning like idiots. Tewkesbury says, “I’m not looking to start another fight, but you probably shouldn’t have done that.”

Enola scoffs, and though she knows he’s right, she can’t help but give a teasing smile and shake of her head. “Watch out, Tewkes. Your ‘snobby nobility’ self is showing.”

“Oh, c’mon, I agree to being a nincompoop, but _that_ is one thing you can’t defend calling me.”

“You used the word ‘ _curate_ ’ on me. Curate! Sounds like a snobby word to me. Who says that?”

“Somebody who thinks a certain girl doesn’t want to be caught kissing in the middle of London for the whole world to see.”

It’s the twinkle in his eye that does it for Enola, and she asks, “You really think so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, _I_ don’t think so.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

She takes that as a challenge. “This.”

And then she kisses him again. 


	2. Yours: that which belongs to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enola and Tewkesbury's kiss has been publicized, one of the Holmes siblings is quite upset about it, and Enola seeks out Tewkesbury to discuss the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone on Tumblr requested this, and it looks like I lied when I said it wasn't seeing this site. A small visual / epilogue to chapter one :)

**_"Enola! Enola, open up this second!”_ **

Well, there goes Enola Holmes’ tranquil Saturday morning.

The 16 year-old detective groggily opens her eyes as her ears register the sound of frantic pounding on her bedroom door that is accompanied with a voice – is that...Mycroft?– that sounds urgent.

“I’m coming!” she hollers back, not sure what to dread more: whatever Mycroft has come to her lodging house about or the lecture she knows she’ll be receiving later from her landlady about being noise-courteous of the other residents.

While she tends to be a morning bird, always up to start her day fresh with an adventure, whether it be sleuthing or simply running to the street vendors to buy fresh market bread before it sold out, on Saturdays she enjoys sleeping in a bit. However, she squints at the wall’s clock, and when it becomes apparent that it is not even half past 7, irritation floods through her. 

Unaware of her current mood, the door suddenly flies open with a bang, and Mycroft Holmes reaches his sister in three quick strides. Sherlock rushes in as well, hot on his heels, and wears an uneasy, apologetic grimace. 

“Mycroft!” Enola yells in annoyance at her sibling, momentarily forgetting all about her worry about the other tenants. Sitting straight up in bed, she pulls the covers up to her chest and glowers. 

_Are all brothers this obnoxious when it comes to bothering their sisters, or did I hit the unlucky jackpot?_ she thinks as the eldest Holmes towers over her.

“Do you know what this is? Have you seen it?”

Mycroft all but throws a newspaper down on Enola’s lap with an exasperated sigh and starts to pace the room.

Though he isn’t looking, Enola scowls back and picks up the paper. At first she’s not sure what she’s supposed to be looking at – it all appears to be the usual content she read every day: advertisements for where to purchase the latest clothing trends, a lengthy article on life longevity, another piece on how to handle scarlet fever if your child fell ill, even a small clip that discussed updates from Parliament – but when she finally flips to the cover page, she sees the only thing Mycroft can possibly be so distraught over.

The picture on the front cover stares back up at her in all its black and white glory, and Enola’s breathing becomes shallow as she stares at the image of herself and Tewkesbury in the alleyway from the day before. Though the photograph itself is slightly blurry, there’s no mistaking the incredibly close proximity between her and the marquess, and if there is any question of the identity of the two people, the bold heading in all capital letters reading _LORD TEWKESBURY OF BASILWETHER AND HIS COURTSHIP ENOLA HOLMES SPOTTED SHARING A PASSIONATE MOMENT_ explains it all.

Enola doesn’t try to read the corresponding article underneath. She exchanges a glance with Sherlock who has gone from concerned to grimacing.

“Sorry you had to find-”

“Where did you get this?” Enola interrupts Sherlock. She eyes bore into Mycroft but she can’t help but break contact to swiftly glance back down to the picture on her lap. Yep, still there. 

Mycroft sighs as if he’s about to correct a young child for the millionth time. “Where _couldn’t_ I get it? It’s _The London Journal_ , for heaven’s sake.”

Enola checks. He’s right. In her state of absolute shock that her and Tewkesbury’s quick, intimate moment had been captured, she hadn’t noticed the name of the paper, and as the horror that the most popular periodical in the city has now been circulating a clip of her life for the public to devour, Enola can feel her cheeks becoming red. 

Sure, it’s only been less than a couple hours since the paper was released, but a city like London devours news and spreads it like wildfire, especially if it’s gossip. 

Mycroft doesn’t hesitate to verbalize her thoughts. “Do you know how fast this news will be distributed to even the most illiterate chap in the city?” Lips pursed and brow wrinkled in concentration, he begins to pace once more, worrying the rug Enola’s bed rests on. With a huff he grumbles, “Do you know how fast this could destroy the Holmes’ family name? Our reputation?”

“Now Mycroft-” Sherlock, ever the middle-child moderator, starts to attempt to placate their sibling.

Enola snaps out of it then. Of course that camera man had to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Of course this is an unfortunate turn of events. Of course she wishes that there wasn’t a possibility of Eudoria finding out that her only daughter is making the front lines of the newspaper for something other than progressive work. 

But...she also wishes that her family wouldn’t invade her personal space at the crack of dawn. She wishes that Mycroft wasn’t being so overdramatic about something _she’d_ done. She isn’t his ward anymore, and from the looks of it, Sherlock doesn’t appear upset, just sorry for her. 

“ _Our_ reputation?” she demands, quirking an eyebrow in irritation. “What is ‘ _our’_ reputation?” She throws off the covers and is stands up, ignoring the longing to crawl back into her warm bed. “Because the last time I checked, the only two Holmes in this room who are known pretty well throughout London are me and Sherlock, so you really don’t have much to worry about.”

Enola might have just as well slapped him, for Mycroft gapes at her, sputtering unfinished sentences that are filled with incredulence. It’s the fact that she’s _right_ than her bold claim that has linguistically set him back, and when Enola peeks out of the corner of her eye, she can make out Sherlock close his eyes and shake slightly as he tries to contain his laughter. 

The bitter scowl is back on Mycroft’s face all too soon. “Well, this makes you looks unprofessional, and not only that, but the marquess as well. Do you even know what this scandal might do to his credibility?”

In all honesty, Enola has not. Too preoccupied in the news and lashing back at Mycroft, she’s forgotten all about the boy she’s courting and how the incident will affect him, and now it’s her turn to fall silent.

_What_ will _this do him?_ She ponders. _But even more, he…he won’t be upset, right?_ She thinks back to his words in the alleyway, _“You probably shouldn’t have done that”,_ and cringes, for he was right, and she doesn’t like – isn’t used to being – wrong. Her intuition has never let her down on making rash decisions until now, and even if it had, it wouldn’t have impacted anyone but herself. Now, she has to, at some point for she can’t stay in her room for eternity, face the consequences and Tewkesbury’s reaction.

She shoves her insecurity aside with a slight shake of her head, discrediting the worries and reminds herself that Tewkesbury is more than likely used to unsolicited media press, and that it will all blow over in a couple of news cycles.

In fact, maybe he’ll even be happy about it. Tewkesbury is a sucker for romantic gestures – she has a quick flashback to the letters he’d written her – so it wouldn’t surprise her if he has cut the picture out and framed it. Anyways, at least there won’t be any more rumors spreading around about a potential break in their courtship.

Enola clears her throat, and lifts her chin with defiance that doesn’t quite feel genuine. “Thank you for informing me, but this is my problem now. I will handle it. You can see yourselves out, now.”

Mycroft all but stomps out, realizing that there is not much more he can do on his part, and Sherlock, who Enola is guessing has only been here to ensure her life would continue after this morning’s unannounced ambush, follows him, and right before he shuts her door, he glances back and mouths, _“good luck”_.

⋆⋆⋆

Enola isn’t one to procrastinate on settling matters, so after dressing and a quick breakfast, she heads for London’s streets, ignoring the stares and whispers of passersby.

She knows where to find Tewkesbury. It’s Saturday afternoon, which means the flower market will be near-void of people, and an even more perfect place to wander, lost in one’s thoughts. While she can find him even if he isn’t where she expects him to be, it brings a small smile to her face thinking about the fact that without her detective skills she still knows the small details of his life, like how he secretly put out scraps by the back door of Basilwether for the orange homeless tabby or how he secretly hates playing the piano for his mother’s guests.

It feels uncannily familiar to her as she spots him craning his neck to look at – are those hydrangeas? She has no clue, even after Tewkesbury’s extensive ramblings about flora – and pads up behind him, clearing her throat which all but makes him jump in surprise.

“Hi,” she says in a small voice, suddenly feeling self-conscious and shy.

“Hi,” he replies, but there’s little to no enthusiasm in his voice. He offers no further conversation, half turning from Enola and pulling some yellow flowers from a stand and hold them up to eye level, saying, “Would these look good in a bouquet of roses and petunias?” It’s clear he knows exactly what Enola has sought him out for, and his lack of enthusiasm to discuss the matter worries Enola. “Or maybe some orange tiger lilies…”

“Tewkesbury.”

“Hmm, I’m thinking-”

“William!”

That grabs him. She rarely uses his first name, the meaning of calling him Tewkesbury not used in a manner of formality but rather as a term of endearment. A reminder of how she’d grown fond of him even when she had only known him by his title, and how she’d always be able to acknowledge that while he was nobility, he was still one of the humblest people she’d met. So it stuns him into a standstill when he hears his own name, and even Enola must admit that it feels so foreign to say.

And then she’s standing right in front of him, her face staring up into his, and there’s no chance of her kissing him now, not with the direness of the situation they’re in, but she needs to get his attention and keep it. This is so uncharacteristic of him to be ignoring her when usually he’s fawning over her every move, and in all honesty, Enola hasn’t realized how much she’s come to enjoy his attention. And while it has at times been slightly embarrassing for her to admit, even to just herself, deep down she knows that it’s the fact his affection is so pure and genuine and sweet that makes her love him all the more.

Channeling the confidence she’d exhibited earlier this morning, Enola says what she means. She doesn’t want to send any mixed signals, or even worse, have a repeat performance of their previous argument. The thought of being on the brink of disaster with Tewkesbury again makes her stomach churn. No, she doesn’t want to face that ache in her heart again if she can help it.

“I’m not sorry about what happened,” she starts off. “To be perfectly honest, I’d do it all over again if I had the chance. I don’t care if all of London knows. Sure, it’s kind of awkward, but the picture is actually sweet, in a way, don’t you think?”

“Oh, it’s lovely, all right,” the marquess replies, and while Enola can tell that there is sincerity in his statement, she can also distinguish an unfinished thought hidden as well.

“But what?” she prompts, a hidden demand that he be honest with her as well. 

Tewkesbury sighs. “My mother loves you very much, Enola, as you know, but you also know that she’s a traditional woman. She did not take the news very well...”

“And-?” 

“She thinks it was scandalous-”

Enola thinks she knows where this is going. She groans in dismay, rubs her temple, and begins to pace, saying, “Mycroft thought so too, so I told him to mind his own business while I handled things.” There’s more than a hint of pride in her voice, but unfortunately, Tewkesbury - who is already wary of the whole situation - stares at her in confusion. 

“Is that why you’re fine with it? To make a statement to your sibling?”

“What?” Enola gawks. “No!” Then she squints and slowly pads back to where the marquess stands and is fiddling with those darn tiger lillies. “Why are you not fine with it? Are you...are you worried about what it will do to your reputation? You haven’t been a lord for that long...”

And suddenly she feels horrible and naive for assuming that Tewkesbury would see the same way as she did. He didn’t have nearly as much room as she did to make public mistakes. Working on passing or halting bills that would decide the fate of the country is his part of his daily life, and that sudden reminder causes a sense of silliness on her behalf rises in Enola. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry,” is what comes tumbling out, almost as jumbled as her letter tiles when she dumps them out onto her bed to work a case. “I’ve been so blind. You have a whole set of conduct rules to live by in a world that I don’t know the slightest clue about. Will you be able to forgive me for this? Because it was technically all my fault-”

Tewkesbury’s face softens at her anxious countenance and he murmurs, “Of course, Enola,” in a reassuring tone. “If you don’t remember, I ran away from home about a year ago because I couldn’t stand the idea of having my every move decided for me.” Taking her hand in his, always a favorite tender touch of his, he murmurs, “I’m only shaken because I’m worried for you.”

“Me?” she squeaks in surprise. 

“Well, yes. You have detective work to do, and because it’s important to you, I would never want to impede on that. And I would never want anyone I have close connections with to do so either. But it sounds like you don’t think it will impact your career, so for that I’m thankful.”

His comfort reminds her of his promise after their argument that he didn’t want to control her whereabout, but only wanted her to be safe. 

“What else did your mother say? Did she advise we - or more importantly you - put out a statement?”

Though his words sparked a blossom of happiness in Enola’s chest, she can’t help but worry about what his family had said about the whole ordeal. Not one to take others’ opinions personally, but also someone who loves her nincompoop very much, Enola fears for the worst. 

Sensing her distress, Tewkesbury reaches to place his palm on her arm. His eyes grow serious, and he’s not smiling anymore. “She might’ve said something, but I’m coming to learn that I can be both a dutiful marquess and also a marquess in love. Neither distracts from the other because _they don’t have to_. While yes, it was improper, at least in the social sense...I don’t regret it either. Anyways...” 

He’s not touching her anymore, but the truth of his words connects them in a way that physical contact wouldn’t be able to recreate. “What that photographer did was improper as well. Obviously what he saw wasn’t very private, but he could actually get into a lot of trouble for publishing content about nobility without consent.”

Enola’s eyes widen at this. “Are you going to say something?” _This could be the solution to this whole mess_ , she thinks eagerly. As if Tewkesbury could hear her thoughts, he chuckles, for they both know it might be the avenue she’d take. 

“Actually, I think I have a better idea...”

⋆⋆⋆

Tewkesbury isn’t one for revenge. _There isn’t a malicious bone in his body_ , Enola reminds herself as they leave the flower market and head for the busier streets of London. 

The pair finds a reporter pretty quickly. A tall man looking to be in his early thirties carries a tripod camera stand under his arms, and a journalist messenger bag hangs diagonally across his body. He doesn’t look particularly busy as he stops to set up his belongings, but starts when Enola and Tewkesbury approach him. It doesn’t take him long to figure out who he’s looking at. 

“Enola Holmes? Lord Tewkesbury?” he gawks in disbelief. “What are you- How- Can I help you?”

“Actually, yes.” Though Tewkesbury is the shyer one between the two, he beams and wraps an arm around Enola’s waist and says, “Would you mind taking our photo, and on a day when news is slow, publish it with a small report somewhere along the lines of ‘Lord Tewkesbury and Enola Holmes resume daily life and continue to work, even in the public eye, for that’s who they are: two people who are capable of not only love for each other-” he smiles down at the top of Enola’s brown hair. “-But also for what they love to do, which is helping the general public...working towards a greater good’?”

Enola nearly tears up at his words as the reporter eagerly agrees, realizing that she’s the luckiest girl in all of London and is grateful one again that she chose that specific train cabin that fateful day.

_Well, it’s now or never_ , she thinks and holds up the handful of tiger lilies she’d bought at the market to her chest, simultaneously leaning into Tewkesbury’s side embrace. “Be sure to get these in the picture, too?”

“What-”

Tewkesbury is blinking in confusion, and Enola giggles at his perplexed state.

“Tiger lillies. Tell the readers that they stand for how we feel about each other and our relationship in the wake of the whole ordeal that has painted us in a scandalous light, for they symbolize-”

“-confidence. Pride.” He’s caught on immediately and grins at her, eyes sparkling with happiness at her cleverness.

“See, Flower Boy? Though I still don’t give a fig about flowers, I always pay attention when you talk about them; and just sometimes I remember a thing or two. I am yours, after all.”


End file.
